The Asset
by DottieP
Summary: AU. Santana Lopez is an Op in the CIA's Clandestine Service Counterproliferation Division; she's being re-stationed in Brussels to assist a team with intelligence gathering on weapons trafficking by the Russian mafia. She must cultivate relationships with potential assets, one of whom is art student Quinn Fabray, to help stop the proliferation of weapons to terrorists. ON HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Asset

**Summary**: AU. Santana Lopez is an Operations Officer in the CIA's Clandestine Service Counterproliferation Division; she's being re-stationed in Brussels to assist a team with intelligence gathering on weapons trafficking by the Russian mafia. She must cultivate relationships with potential assets, one of whom is art student Quinn Fabray, an American pursuing a second graduate degree and working part-time as a consultant for a Russian businessman. Santana needs to secure Quinn as an asset to help stop the proliferation of small arms and explosives to an elusive terrorist splinter cell before the group can lodge attacks against key U.S. installations.

**Rating**: T-R/NC-17

**Disclaimer**: I don't own these characters yada yada yada.

I. Flight UA 838, Bangkok to Washington, D.C.

She had a 24-hour flight to contemplate why Langley was pulling her from her assignment in Bangkok. Santana had thought that she was doing a good job; you don't get pulled from a challenging and career-making position for a good reason, she reflected. But, the director of the Counterproliferation Division, her boss, said that the NCS Deputy Director herself requested her presence at Langley.

By the time that she reached Tokyo five hours later to change planes, Santana resigned herself to not knowing. Whatever the issue was, she knew that she would follow protocol, take her orders, and move on. It was what she did, what she knew how to do. It was why she had the job as second-in-command in the Bangkok station in the first place.

Nearly 12 hours later when she landed in Chicago to change planes yet again, Santana had finished reading Dostoyevsky's _Crime and Punishment_ again; she felt compelled to stay practiced in her many languages, Russian being one of them. The novel proved a great distraction from all of the "what if" scenarios rolling around in her head about why she was headed back to D.C.

As the flight attendant announcement that they had arrived at the gate, she shifted in her seat to adjust her stiff muscles, wincing slightly at the tug on the side of her rib cage—an old injury from a gun fight in the dark streets of Bangkok after a meeting with an asset had gone awry. Those were the memories that she wants to forget, the pain and the violence, yet she knew that this was what she signed up for with the Agency. Her initial reasons were, of course, idealistic and altruistic, and at times, even now, they still are. But, she knows better now, too. She knows that nothing is black and white, that her decisions could fall into moral or ethical grey areas. Her conscience had to adjust to that. At the same time, she also knows that she is helping; she sees it in the thankful faces of the people whom she saves or whose lives are a bit better because she stopped the bad guys, at least for the moment. The altruism is still there, lurking amid the grey.

As she walked to her next flight, through a very busy O'Hare airport, she suddenly felt the nerves bubble under her skin; she knew that she'd go straight from Dulles to work—a car would be waiting for her, so she had no choice. Twenty-four hours on a plane then a meeting with her boss didn't seem fair, but it seemed so…Langley.

Two hours later and she was in the car traveling along busy D.C. highways, through the secured area, and then up to the doors of the Agency. It had been at least two years since she had been there, and she had her luggage to contend with this time. After going through the rather lengthy entry process, she took a deep breath as she stepped on to the elevator. She didn't think that she exhaled until a few floors when she found once again in her old stomping grounds, the oddly quiet hustle and bustle of the Counterproliferation Division.

"Lopez, great to finally see you," she heard coming from a voice behind to her. She turned around and softend at the smiling face of her boss, Charles Reeves.

"Charlie, it's great to be seen," she replied. "I think," Santana added with a wry smile. They shook hands, and he took her luggage as they walked towards the end of the hall.

"It's all good news on this end," Charles said softly, hoping to alleviate her obvious anxiety. "We're meeting with Deirdre right away; she wants you briefed so you can start prepping."

"Charlies, c'mon. I just got off of a 24 hour flight and you want me to meet with the Deputy Director and expect me to be coherent?"

"You'll be fine." He paused. "Excited possibly." She glanced at him with curiosity.

Santana had only met with Deirdre Campbell twice in her 11-year career; this time would be the third, and she was more nervous now than before. When they arrived at her door, Charles stopped her by putting his hand softly on her forearm. "Breathe, Lopez. It'll be fine," he assured her with a soft smile, one that she remembers fondly when she was first assigned under his command—the smile that a revered mentor gives to one of his favorites.

He knocked and a confident voice responded, "Enter, please." The last thing that Santana saw as she entered the corner office was a glare off of the brass nameplate: Deidre Cooper, Deputy Director, Clandestine Services. Santana felt her heart lodge in her throat.

They sat quietly in the dark brown leather chairs on one side of the mahogany desk. Deidre was finishing up a memo on her computer and hadn't so much as looked at her two visitors. "Give me one second, Charlie and Santana. I need to finish up this briefing memo for Kate." Charles nodded, but all Santana could think was that Deidre rolls "Kate" off of her tongue like they're old sorority sisters rather than boss and employee-Kate, as in Kathryn McCullough, Director of Clandestine Services, one of the most powerful and respected people in the American intelligence community.

Deidre finally trained her eyes on her guests and smiled warmly. "It's nice to see you both; thank you for coming in." The other two nodded and smiled in return. Deidre pulled a file out of a drawer to her left and moved it with both hands towards the center of her desk, eyeing Santana the entire time. "Lopez, I have a new assignment for you," she said with a seriousness that belied the smile that crossed her face. "It's in Brussels."


	2. Chapter 2

II. Clandestine Service, Langley, VA

"Brussels?" Santana asked quietly.

Deirdre smiled knowingly as she opened the folder and took it with her as she reclined in her high-back leather chair. Charles glanced at Santana and sat back, waiting for Deidre to continue.

"Yes, Brussels. We have a small station there but are looking to gradually increase our presence given some recent intel that we've been receiving about Russian mafia operations in the city. This is where you come in," Deidre then paused to glance at Santana pointedly, trying to convey that what she was about to say was significant. Santana gave a small nod in acknowledgement.

"We've learned that that the weapons proliferation arm of the Russian mafia has become, shall we say, more visible in Belgium, and we believe that they may be establishing a point of distribution there, setting up sales, that sort of thing." Deidre exhaled before continuing. "We need another officer there to contribute to human intel collection. You've proven your effectiveness in Bangkok, and your knowledge of Russian history and politics will be an asset to this investigation. I want you in Brussels within 72 hours ready for a briefing with the station chief."

"Ms. Cooper, I'm honored that you've selected me for this position," Santana replied with a look of wonderment on her face. This was huge; the Deputy Director handpicked her for this expanding investigation.

Charles leaned over and nudged her. "See, I told you good news." Santana snorted softly in response and gave him a half-smile, one that conveyed both relief and a hint of excitement.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you need to head home and get settled before coming in for a debriefing from Bangkok. Then, I want Charles here to fill you in on more details for Brussels. You'll be heading in three days, and when you touch down in Belgium, Corcoran will want you ready to dive into research and then head into the field." Deidre closed the file and handed it over to Charles. With a nod and a handshake, Santana left the Deputy Director's office in a state of bewilderment.

As Charles walked next to her, he glanced a few times in her direction; Santana had suddenly become quite interested in the innocuous beige carpet. "You okay, Lopez?"

"Corcoran?" was Santana's only response.

"Shelby Corcoran, the station chief in Brussels. She's good. The team is small, which for such an operation will be good; you don't want too many cooks in the kitchen." Santana nodded knowingly. She only knew Shelby by reputation—highly intelligent, sophisticated, no-nonsense, and efficient. Santana wasn't sure whether or not she would like working with her, but Shelby's reputation was positive if nothing else.

They entered Charles' office, and Santana looked around at the familiar setting—bookshelves graced with everything from Steve Coll texts to Cold War history books. She sat down in one of the chairs at his desk, noticing immediately the difference in comfort compared to those in Deidre's office. She allowed herself to be comfortable with Charles and ran her fingers through her thick black hair, feeling like that she was getting some of the plane trip off of her.

"So, kid, you better brush up on your French and Russian," Charles joked as he sat down across from her.

"C'mon, Charles, you know me; I don't need to brush up on anything. I'm always good-to-go." The cocky smile on Santana's face drew a chuckle from her boss.

"There it is, the confidence. Glad to see Bangkok didn't soften you." Santana winced at that, thinking back to the skirmish in the streets, the feel of the bullet ripping through her side and the vision of her own bullet shattering the skull of one of her enemies. Charles immediately leaned forward with a look of concern. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine, Charles, I'm fine." She exhaled, straightened her posture a bit, and gathered herself. "So, what can I know right now about this operation?"

"The basics, until Brussels when you'll be fully briefed." She nodded before he continued. "This is what I know, beyond what Deirdre told you. We've been getting buzz about small arms and explosives getting into the hands of Al-Qaeda splinter cells—or at least cells who claim that they're connected to Al-Qaeda. We think they're coming through the growing proliferation arm of the Russian mob. Corcoran will have some more specifics regarding names and all that."

He paused, scratching his graying beard, a gesture he made when he was either contemplating his next move or assessing the person across from him. Santana wasn't sure which he meant this time. While she waited, she noticed that his shirt was in its usual rumpled state, the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his tie was partially unknotted. He looked like a cross between a disheveled physics professor and an accountant. Though, Santana knew that in the 1980s, Charles was a keen and highly valued intelligence officer working during the tail end of the Cold War. She enjoyed hearing his war stories from those days and hoped that she could one day make the same contribution that Charles has.

"Look, Lopez, from what I've been told, we don't know a lot; this is why they brought you in. The op is in its infancy, but the belief is that these Russians could be big players in supplying these small organizations with arsenals."

"So, no concern about biological or nuclear weapons?"

"Not at the moment. We're thinking that these smaller cells, which, as you know, have fewer financial resources, will go for the small caches. As you also know, these smaller cells can cause a lot of damage because they operate in isolation and in remote areas."

"Yeah, and a lot of them have nothing to lose," Santana added. She knew this from her experience in Bangkok. It routinely surprised her at the will that some of these men (because nine times out of ten that's who she faced down) had at achieving whatever their goal was and the lengths to which they would go. Death didn't seem matter to them; she grappled with this concept everyday that she had to go into the field with her gun concealed, never knowing if she would need to use it.

Charles nodded in agreement, and they both fell silent, reflecting on this sobering knowledge. Charles then softly slammed his hands in desk, signaling the end of their reunion. He stood up from behind his messy desk and leaned his hip to the side while crossing his arms to rest on top of his growing beer belly.

"Get out of here Lopez. Go home, relax, get a drink. You'll need to be back here by 11 tomorrow for your Bangkok debrief." She rose to meet his eye and extended her hand.

"Thanks, Charles, for everything." They exchanged smiles, and Santana grabbed her luggage as she headed for the door.

"Don't let me down now," he said in way of goodbye. She could hear the smile in his voice.

"You know me, Charles, I would never do that," Santana responded with a full grin as she exited his office.

As she walked to the elevator, she suddenly felt the weight of the flight and the meeting hit her. She ran a hand through her hair as she blew out a puff of air. Her mind reviewed her plan for the next 18 hours before her debriefing the following day. She reached for her phone in her messenger bag as she headed towards the exit and the car that awaited her. Santana stopped just as she exited the building, realizing that she had no one to call, no one to tell that she was back stateside.

A flood of emotions washed over as she settled into the back of the black Lincoln Town Car. She was nervous for this new assignment, but her pride trumped that; she knew that she could do this job well. And, she was always up for the challenge. She also felt a bit humbled that her division singled her out to be added to the team in Brussels. Then, almost like that bullet that perforated her skin a year ago, a sense of emptiness tore through her.

Santana knew that this was part of her job with the Agency—the loneliness, the isolation, the fear of those two aspects of her life. She also knew that she was good at handling it; she liked being alone, but, at times, she craved some kind of connection, whether it was physical or emotional. Right now, she wasn't sure which one—or both—it was. She just knew that looking at her cell phone with no one to call made her not want to go home to her small Dupont Circle apartment. That drink that Charles mentioned was sounding better and better. With that thought, Santana leaned forward towards the driver.

"Would you mind dropping my luggage off at my place? You can just leave it with the doorman."

"Sure, no problem." the driver answered firmly.

"Thanks."

"Where to, then?"

"Churchkey, Logan Circle." Santana sat back, closed her eyes, and smiled to herself. She was looking forward to that drink.


	3. Chapter 3

III. Logan Circle, Washington, D.C.

As the Town Car slowly maneuvered its way through evening D.C. traffic, Santana reflected on the absence of friends or friendly contacts in her phone. With that thought, she quickly reached for her messenger bag and rifled through to a pouch that she sewed into it, a hidden compartment. From it, she pulled a different phone, a personal iPhone that she rarely used. She found the bookmark that she was looking for on her browser and checked the calendar on the site. It looked like Avery was available; hopefully, Santana thought, she would take a last minute date with an old friend. She dialed a number that she hadn't in two years, hoping that it was still working.

"Hello?" a warm, smooth voice answered.

"Avery, hi. It's Casey. It's been a while," Santana lowered her voice a bit, almost whispering into the phone.

"It has been a long time. It's good to hear your voice."

Santana smiled as she let her head fall back against the leather seat. "I saw that you were free tonight. Care to join me for a drink?"

"Well, you know I don't do last minute dates, but in your case, I can make an exception. I haven't seen you in…what? Two years? It'd be nice to catch up."

"It would be. I'm heading to Churchkey in a bit. Want to meet me there?"

"I'd love to. Is this just drinks or did you have something more long term in mind?"

Santana grinned again. "Something more long term."

It was Avery's voice that dropped this time. "You know I like our longer dates; I'm looking forward to seeing you. How about eight at Churchkey?"

Santana glanced at her watch; she had time to head home. "Eight it is. I'll see you then." Avery said goodbye, and they hung up. Santana tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Sorry to do this, but can we head back to my place. Change of plans."

The driver flicked his eyes up into the rearview mirror and smirked, "No problem." Santana had half a mind to smack that smirk off of his face, but she suddenly found her second wind and didn't seem to care all that much.

It would be really great to see Avery.

###

Santana only had an hour and a half before her date, so she hurried around her one bedroom apartment in Dupont Circle. Unpacking wasn't on the agenda, so she shoved her luggage in the closet. Her apartment felt foreign to her, but at least it was clean, she thought.

After showering and slipping into a simple black cocktail dress, Santana finished her hair and added a small amount of make-up—not that she needed it, but a little lipstick never hurt. She then had to transfer all of her items to a small black purse—her cover story items, like the State Department I.D. and driver's license with "Casey Grant" listed next to her picture. Before slipping the plastic cards into the purse's matching wallet, Santana stared at them, internally shaking her head at the idea that she lived more as Casey than as Santana.

She quickly walked a block or two north, grabbed some cash from the ATM, and headed to Kramerbooks to get Avery's gift. After paying for James Gleick's _The Information_ (an item on Avery's wish list), Santana slipped an envelope of cash inside the front cover before putting it back into the bag. From there, she caught a cab and made her way to Churchkey. She couldn't help but thumb through the book; Avery never ceased to surprise her with her range of interests. This time, it was a book about the information age, a topic that the two women had yet to discuss over the course of their 'dates.' Santana looked forward to what was always a relaxing and engaging conversation with the beautiful and intelligent Avery.

The cab driver stopped in front of the small beer bar and gave Santana a gruff "thanks" after she paid him. Santana knew that Avery would already be there with a table in the often crowded bar; she climbed the rather steep steps and shook off the small wave of nervousness that crept up on her. She had seen Avery a number of times when she lived in D.C. and was working in the Counterterrorism Division, but it had been a while and she felt…rusty, for lack of a better word. But, she knew that Avery was kind and would be forgiving for any missteps that Santana might make during their date.

Avery sat at a small table near the front of the bar, against the glass that looked over 14th Street. Santana grinned and walked over to the table. Avery rose to meet her.

"Avery, you look stunning as always," Santana offered by way of a 'hello.' They hugged, and Avery softly replied, "As do you, and you smell good, too." Avery had turned her head and caressed Santana's neck with her cheek as she inhaled the mixture of Santana's shampoo that smelled like a rainforest and her perfume, which Avery immediately noted was new.

Santana handed Avery the bag, which Avery took then pulled the book out while she sat back down at the table.

"Thank you for the book. I can't wait to start reading it." Avery flipped through the first pages and didn't visibly acknowledge the envelope, but Santana knew that she saw it. She also appreciated the trust because Avery didn't open the envelope this time. She'd make a pretty good spy, Santana thought amusingly.

Santana settled into her chair. "I was surprised by the topic. I'm used to discussing literature with you. I'm not sure that I'm ready for any IT talk." The smile that accompanied Santana's quip drew out a similar grin from Avery.

Avery laughed softly and tossed her curled long brown hair over one shoulder, which contrasted nicely with the sleeveless red dress that she was wearing. She knows that I like her in red, Santana reflected as she watched Avery's hands toy with her hair. "Well, I'm not ready to discuss IT yet either, so we're safe. Do you want a drink? I waited to order until you got here."

"I would _love_ a drink," Santana replied with a bit more enthusiasm than she had intended.

They each ordered one of the many draft beers offered and then decided on sharing a cheese plate. Their conversation was easy and relaxed; Santana missed this. She missed her stimulating conversations with Avery; she missed D.C. And, the realization that her stay here would be short-lived weighed on her. She'd be stuck with Belgian beer and no Avery for an indefinite amount of time. Santana visibly changed with this thought, and it didn't go unnoticed by Avery. Their evening had gone well so far, and they were about to leave when Santana's mood shifted.

Avery reached her hand across the small table to grab Santana's. "Hey, are you okay? Did I say something to upset you?"

Santana immediately shot her head and looked into Avery's eyes. "No, of course not. I just…" she hesitated. "I have to go overseas again to do some research, and it just hit that I'll miss this." She shrugged in an effort to convey nonchalance, but Avery wasn't biting.

"Miss what? The noise in here?" Avery tried joking.

Santana gave her a half-smile before she said, "Good American craft beer and talking to you." The look that Santana sent Avery's way was almost shy, which Avery had never seen from Santana (well, Casey, really).

"I've missed talking to you, too. I'm glad you called." Avery always knew how to reassure her, Santana thought.

"Any interest in not talking?" Santana playfully asked in a lowered voice as she quirked an eyebrow.

Avery's blue eyes sparkled as a bright grin spread across her face. "Not talking with you sounds exactly how I'd like to spend the rest of the night."

Santana paid the bill, and they jumped into a cab to head to Santana's apartment. Not talking was exactly what Santana needed.

###

Avery always knew what she needed, Santana reflected as she tightened her grip in chestnut-colored hair and arched her hips. With Avery's tongue skillfully bringing her closer to another orgasm, Santana tried to let everything slip away—the stressful travel, the pain, the loneliness, the anxiety about her new assignment. Right now, in the dark with a woman who knew her only as Casey, Santana felt more grounded and connected than she had in a long time.

Hours later, Santana had her arms wrapped around Avery while Avery traced her fingers lightly along a taut abdomen. She kept returning to a jagged scar on the left, just above Santana's hip. "What happened?" Avery asked quietly.

Santana was brought of her reverie and opened her eyes. She dragged her hand up Avery's back into her hair. "Hmm?"

"What happened here?" Avery repeated, delicately running her finger over the scar.

"Oh that. Wrong place, wrong time."

"I didn't know economic research could be so dangerous."

Santana could hear the smile in Avery's voice, and she laughed softly at the reply. "I didn't either. I'm glad I don't have to go back to Belarus for a while."

"I'm glad you don't either."

It amazed Santana that this woman, who barely knew anything about her except how to make her come over and over again, could make her feel cared for, even here in the stillness of the early morning. She felt safe at the moment, which, in her line of work, often seemed like a rare commodity. Avery continued drawing her finger over the scar before kissing it and tucking her head under Santana's chin. They fell asleep like that, and Santana wondered if it would always be like this: seeing Avery every two years for one night and then going off to a foreign land without the prospect of feeling warm and safe for who knew how long. It wasn't enough, and she knew Avery was just a quick fix to a larger issue. Despite all of her protest to the contrary, Santana wanted something more significant. How she was going to find that when she was flying off to Brussels in 48 hours was an entirely different problem that she wasn't ready to face.


	4. Chapter 4

IV. Brussels, J Gallery

"Je vais prendre un café," said a lilting voice from somewhere in the back of the gallery. Quinn barely turned her head from the Sotheby's catalog to shout, "Okay" back to Béatrice, her boss and owner of J Gallery. As a buyer for the gallery, Quinn was scouring the latest auction offerings, keeping her eye out for any French Impressionists, specifically Morisot. The last Impressionist that she was able to get for the Gallery was Renoir's _Pêcheuses à la Ligne _that she spent $332,000 on, outbidding a tenacious little British man. But, she knows that those Impressionists are generally hard to come by these, so, instead, she tries to focus on pieces that would work in the gallery and that Béatrice would like.

Her phone buzzes, and she glances down—a reminder to register for classes stares back at her on the screen. She sighs and swivels her chair towards her computer to log on to the Université Libre de Bruxelles. It's the beginning of her last semester in what she hopes will be her final degree. An art history master's degree should be all that she needs to work her way up the ladder in the art world. Her expertise in French Impressionism has been useful but expanding her knowledge into the Russian avant-garde has proved fruitful as of late.

She runs a hand through her short, wispy blonde hair as she clicks through the registration procedure. She signs up for the "Arts of the Twentieth Century" course and another entitled the "Study of Contemporary Art." She hopes that both will help her develop a larger knowledge base for her work in the Russian avant-garde. So far, she's focused primarily on Malevich but knows that a certain client will want to expand his collection to include others from the period.

And, just like that, her phone buzzes once again with said client's number popping up on the screen.

"Bonjour, Grigory. How are you?

"Hello, Ms. Fabray. I was hoping that you had some time for me today," he replied, his thick Russian accent sounding even more rough with the gravely voice, evidence of years of smoking unfiltered Russian cigarettes no doubt.

"Of course, I do. Perhaps later this afternoon?"

"I suppose that will do fine."

Quinn was about to respond but heard the phone become somewhat muffled and then Grigory speaking to someone else in the car. "Ostanovka na sklade. Mne nuzhno , chtoby proveritʹ nekotoryye tovary," he said to the person she assumed was driving the car. Quinn's Russian was getting better, but she still wasn't fluent. All she was able to understand was "stop" and "merchandise." She waited for Grigory to return to the phone.

"I apologize, Ms. Fabray. Would you be kind enough to bring that book about Rodchenko that you mentioned last time?"

"Of course. Is there anything else that I should prepare?"

"No, that will be all."

"Well, I will also bring the latest Sotheby's catalog. I believe I saw a few pieces that might interest you."

She nearly had to pull the phone away from her ear when Grigory started laughing happily. She knew that the mention of Sotheby's would delight the older man.

"I look forward to you spending some more of my money, Ms. Fabray."

It was Quinn's turn to chuckle. "You know that I certainly enjoy doing that, Monsieur Zolotov." Now, they both shared in the polite laughter before exchange goodbyes and hanging up.

Quinn went to work with the Sotheby's catalog and immediately found two Rodchenko pieces that she would show to Grigory: "Morning Wash" and "Bolshoi Ballet on Stage." She figured that he wouldn't have a problem purchasing them immediately given their rather low prices, $25,000 and $7,500 respectively. It must be nice to have money to just spend on art, Quinn thought as she marked the pages.

As finished up making some additional notes, she heard Béatrice return through the back entrance.

"Salut!" Béatrice said in a singsong voice as she walked to the front of the gallery, looking for Quinn.

"Hello. How was coffee?"

"Très bon, merci." Béatrice sat down at her own desk, much larger than Quinn's, of course, and much more stylish—all glass with a distressed iron frame. Her very large Mac monitor rested in the corner, a photo of Giacometti's _Three Men Walking II_ sculpture serving as a screensaver.

"Béatrice, I'm meeting with Grigory this afternoon. I hope that it's okay if I leave a bit early."

"Of course, Quinn," Béatrice responded in her beautifully accented English. Quinn enjoyed it when Béatrice slipped effortlessly in and out of English and French. She smiled as Béatrice did it again. "How is Monsieur Zolotov? Is he buying up more Malevich's work?" She chuckled to herself as she pulled out her own paperwork, one for a recent sale of a Grosz's _Model Undressing_ that netted the gallery about $30,000.

"He actually didn't mention Malevich; instead, he asked about the Rodchenko that I bought recently and I found two pieces in Sotheby's catalog that I know he'll simply adore."

"Vraiment?"

Quinn only nodded in response and gave Béatrice a knowing smile; she could practically see the dollar signs in her boss's eyes.

"Bravo, Quinn!" They shared a quiet laugh before returning to their respective paperwork.

"Oh, Béatrice, I wanted to remind that my semester starts soon, so I'll give you my new schedule shortly."

"Bien sûr, mon cher," Béatrice replied warmly. Quinn knew that she was lucky; she didn't have to wait tables or do some other mindless job to earn a living while going to school. In fact, she made a decent living working nearly full-time at J Gallery. And, Béatrice was a godsend; she allowed Quinn to have a flexible schedule and encouraged her role as Grigory Zolotov's private art consultant-slash-buyer. Béatrice wanted Quinn to learn the business and supported her every step of the way.

Too bad her experiences in New York couldn't have been the same, Quinn reflected as she finished gathering her belongings for her meeting with Grigory. Fucking New York, she thought, before walking out of the gallery and down to her usual meeting place with The Russian (a friendly nickname that she and Béatrice had bestowed upon Mr. Zolotov). But, New York was an ocean away; it was too bad that she couldn't put those memories at a similar distance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note**: If you ever have questions about the story, drop me a question in my ask on Tumblr: dottiep dot tumblr dot com.

V. New York City, Two Years Ago

Quinn began pulling the keys to her building out of her handbag as she approached the front door. The tears teetered on the edge as she reflected on her day at work—a typical day, unfortunately.

"Where's my fucking coffee?!" Alan, her boss, shouted in her direction. He stomped towards the front of the Soho gallery that he managed looking for his employee. He pivoted dramatically, rounded the corner, and stood at the end of her desk. "Look, your job here is to _assist_, so fucking _assist_. Do you think I hired you because you knew art? Please. You're pretty, and you get rich men to drop a lot of money on these paintings. You need this job; you need a recommendation from me to do anything in this business, so get off your ass and assist." He made a move to walk away but not before he turned pointedly back to her and made a large step until he was in her personal space. "Remember, I could replace you like that," he snarled with a snap of his fingers right in front of her nose.

The sound of that snap rang in her ears as she climbed the stairs to her Chelsea apartment that she shared with her struggling art girlfriend, Alicia. She just wanted to get home, open a bottle of wine, and cry. She knew that Alan was right, that she needed his recommendation to move up at another gallery. She hated that; she hated him. I guess this is what they mean when they say that you have to pay your dues, Quinn thought.

She entered the small apartment and went to the kitchen where she dropped her bag. "Hello?" she yelled absently as she went to the fridge for some wine. No answer. She moved back to the counter to open the chilled bottle of Damiani Riesling. Had she not returned to that spot, she would not have noticed the folded piece of notebook paper with her name scribbled on it. She sat down on one of the stools with her glass of wine in hand and opened the note.

Babe,

I needed something different, something new. You'll always be important to me, but I need more.

A.

What the fuck? Quinn immediately thought and quickly read the few words again. Did Alicia…? Did she leave? Quinn rose almost without thought and went to their bedroom; the note fell from her hands somewhere along the way. She flung open Alicia's closet door, and sure enough, it was empty.

She was still in disbelief and started walking through the apartment in a daze, noticing a few things missing here and a there (a photo that Quinn took and had framed, some books, most of the remaining CDs). But, it wasn't until Quinn reached the bottom bookcase where she kept her camera that everything sunk in. "That bitch took my camera?!" Quinn shrieked. Now, it was real. Unadulterated rage swept through Quinn as she stood up. The grip on her wine glass increased; she then just turned, hurled the wine glass across the apartment, and screamed at the top of her lungs. No clear words, just pure fury and pain.

She slumped to the floor, down to her knees where she just sat; her chest was heaving, and she felt the need to cling to something. She didn't even feel the small chards of glass that had cut her palm and fingers; she squeezed the glass hard enough for it to begin breaking in her hand before she threw it. All of her energy was seeping out of her; she sank into the patterned rug on the floor. Minutes passed, and she just sat there—no thoughts, just silence. Her phone ringing was the only noise. She rose as if possessed once again and answered it.

"Ms. Fabray?"

"Yes?"

"Hello, this is Nancy from Capitol One. We've noticed some suspicious activity on your Visa card in the last few hours and want to confirm some purchases with you."

"Wait, my Visa? I haven't used that card in weeks. How can there be…?" She stopped herself midsentence. "What charges?"

"Let's see. $450 to United Airlines. $2,000 to a Wilson Property Management in Seattle. $5,500 at Patterson's Used Cars in Queens. There are more. Shall I continue?"

Quinn was stunned. "No, no thank you. Those are not my charges. I think someone," she exhaled on that last word, "stole my card. Like I said, I haven't used that card in weeks."

"Well, Ms. Fabray, there are a number of charges here totaling at least $15,000."

"Fifteen grand? Are you kidding?" Quinn's anger was growing with each second that she was on the phone with Nancy.

"Yes, ma'am. If you're saying that these charges aren't yours, we will need to open an investigation on our end. We will need your cooperation."

"Of course, whatever it takes."

"I'll review this with my supervisor and get back to you. Good night."

"Thanks. Bye."

Quinn stood, hands on the kitchen counter, and mentally assessed her situation. Blood was slowly dripping from her hand, but she ignored the physical pain because the seething anger that flowed through her subdued any other sensation. Let's see, Quinn thought, Alicia broke up with me on what might as well have been a post-it note; she stole my credit card and my prized possession—my camera. Oh, and I'm Alan McMillan's coffee bitch.

Fuck this.

Something had to change.


	6. Chapter 6

VI. Le Wine Bar Sablon, Brussels

Quinn sat at a small table near the rear of the quaint wine bar located in downtown Brussels on Rue des Pigeons; this was their meeting place now—_this_ table at _this_ time. Grigory seemed to be a creature of habit. She sipped a glass of French viognier and flipped aimlessly through the Rodchenko book that she had brought for Grigory. Quinn happened to look up as Grigory entered the small bar, flanked as usual by two thick-necked, muscled men—Yury and Oleg if Quinn recalled correctly.

She didn't question Grigory's security, despite the vague explanation of his business—import/export. She was just there to help a rich man buy some art, she told herself.

He greeted her warmly before instructing Yury to procure a bottle of Grenache to share, which had become a tradition that they had developed over the past few months. They exchanged pleasantries and settled into a comfortable rapport, discussing the wine before Quinn turned their attention to the art.

After turning the Rodchenko book over to Grigory, a gift that he thoroughly enjoyed, Quinn opened up the Sotheby's catalog to the first page that she had marked.

"Grigory, I have two potential acquisitions for you—both Rodchenko's," Quinn said pointing to the first photograph. He smiled brightly.

She continued, as Grigory leaned in and listened with rapt attention, "Now, I know we haven't really ventured into photography much, but the Russians during this period certainly made their unique contribution in this medium. Rodchenko was one of them; he took after the German Dadaists, drawn mostly by their work with montage. He worked primarily with a camera and canvas. Much of the work that you would want to focus on will be from the mid-portion of his career, the late 20s and 30s."

Grigory nodded along, absorbing all of the information as Quinn spoke with confidence. "So, you mentioned two photographs?" Grigory asked quietly.

"Yes, but they vary greatly in tone and mood, so I think that they'll give you a good, initial sense of Rodchenko's work in photography." She smiled at Grigory as he turned the catalog more towards himself and looked more intently at the second photograph, _Morning Wash_.

"What do you think I should bid on them?" he asked quietly; Quinn could hear the hesitancy in his voice. When she heard him speak to his employees, his voice was firm, but now, his insecurity about being new to the art world was coming through in his voice. This was the reason that he hired Quinn—his own private tutor. Just as Quinn was about to suggest a set of figures, Oleg approached the table with a cellphone in his hand.

"Telefonny zvonok. Eto ot Arab," Oleg said as he passed the phone to Grigory, who took it, nodded, and raised his index finger to Quinn as he rose from the table. He only took one step and turned his head to speak, leaving Quinn still within hearing distance. This was new, she noted. Typically, he will move far enough away from her so she cannot hear him. Perhaps, he was beginning to trust her or, she thought, beginning to simply ignore her presence.

Grigory spoke with authority, "Skol'ko vremeni vam nuzhno?" Quinn understood this as she tried to keep her focus on the catalog rather than on the curious conversation. Clearly, the "Arab" on the other end of the line spoke Russian, Quinn observed.

"Shokolad badet gotov, kogda vy nakhodies," Grigory replied. It took all of Quinn's willpower to not whip her head up from the catalog when she heard "chocolate." He sells chocolate, Quinn asked herself incredulously. She shook her head not wanting to know anymore. Grigory finished up his call, and Oleg returned to the table to retrieve the phone.

Grigory spoke in a soft voice to Oleg, but Quinn could still hear, "On skazal, chto ponadobitsya po krayney mere yeshche due nedeli." Apparently, the men on the phone needed two weeks before they were "ready" to buy chocolate? Quinn pondered. Yeah, she didn't need to know anymore, she thought.

Oleg nodded and added, "Chto dast nam vremya, chtoby vse vmeste." Quinn just assumed that "having more time to get everything together" was just more discussion about "chocolate." Oleg walked away and Grigory turned his attention back to Quinn. When Oleg pivoted, Quinn noticed the bulge underneath his armpit. She immediately had a flashback to all of those _Law and Order_ episodes that she watched on reruns. She knew what that bulge was, and she tried to shake it from her mind. She surprised even herself that she really hadn't noticed it before.

"I apologize, Ms. Fabray. Business," he shrugged and smiled as he returned to the seat. Quinn only nodded and smiled before sipping her wine. She had decided towards the beginning of her relationship with Grigory that she would not let on that she understood some Russian. At first, it was out of pure embarrassment, not being a native speaker, but then she slowly realized that the less that she pretended to know the better. She wasn't exactly sure what type of import/export business Grigory was involved in, but with bodyguards, obvious access to liquid assets, and mysterious phone calls about 'chocolate' with Middle Eastern men, she figured that ignorance—or at least faking it—was indeed bliss.

"So," Grigory continued, "you were about to give me some suggested bids for the Rodchenko photos." Quinn smiled, shaking the paranoid thoughts from her head, and returned her attention to the catalog.


	7. Chapter 7

VII. Flight UA950, Washington, D.C. to Brussels

"Ruthless."

The word spun around in her head as she sipped her Jack and Diet Coke, two hours into her seven and a half hour flight. It wasn't the last thing that Charles said to her before she left for Dulles, but it might as well have been. As she exited her Bangkok debriefing, Charles caught her on the way out. He gave her a few additional details on Operation Foxglove ("Foxglove?" she had asked, and Charles simply quipped, "Wikipedia" in response.), but his 'reminder' about the workings of the Russian mafia stuck with her more than anything. Much of her experience had been with small terrorist organizations when she worked in the Counterterrorism Division and then the Chinese-connected Thai arms smugglers when she was moved to Counterproliferation. Her knowledge of the Russia mob was by rumor and from colleagues' stories.

They have no code, Charles mentioned; they didn't operate like the Italians who traditionally worked under their own "Ten Commandments" or even Al-Qaeda who followed a bastardized form of Islam. Instead, they functioned under only one rule: by any means necessary. Santana shuttered at this then downed the rest of her drink.

It wasn't like that she hadn't gotten her hands dirty in the past, but it was the part of her job that she liked the least. She was more cerebral than a gun-wielding bad ass, but she could certainly hold her own and do what was necessary if the situation called for it. In some ways, the Agency operated similarly to the Russian mafia—by any means necessary. With that thought, her mind instantly transported to one year ago and a motel in a gritty part of Bangkok.

She had the key in her hand (this was an old school motel—no key card system here) and Ratsami, her asset, in front of her and shielded, as was part of protocol. When she inserted the key, she gave once last glace over her shoulder, simply out of habit.

An Asian man (Chinese, she assumed) was approaching quickly down the ball, having just exited the elevator. Santana pushed the door open and took another quick look as she gently pushed Ratsami into the room; she swore under her breath as the would-be assassin pulled a silencer out of his black suit jacket pocket and poised over the end of his Black Star pistol.

"Fuck," Santana muttered again as she hurried Ratsami further into the room; she locked the door—no deadbolt or chain at this motel. She told her charge, in Thai, to get into the bathroom, lock the door, and hide in the bathtub. She realized that she was trapped at least momentarily; she quickly contacted her team with an SOS signal but knew that they wouldn't make it before the gunman reached the room. As she returned her phone to her pocket, she heard heavy footsteps stop outside of the room.

Santana raced to the door, knowing that her only chance at holding him off was to disarm him immediately. He kicked the door in with a heavy black boot and immediately moved his arm, pistol in hand, through the opening. Santana slammed the door on his arm repeatedly, knocking the gun free. She kicked it away in time before he threw the door open, smashing her between in it and the nearby wall.

The air whooshed from her lungs on impact, and he entered with two quick steps to continue his assault. She ducked to the left as his fist came flying at her head; she responded with a deft and swift kick to his knee, sending him stumbling backwards, which gave her enough time to move from her pinned position.

As she moved to unholster her own weapon, the assassin recovered, grabbed her shoulders, and tossed her partially across the room, ultimately crashing into a cheap end table and crumbling it into shards.

He made a move for his gun that was just beyond where she was lying on the floor; she caught him with a well-placed and well-timed leg sweep, which dropped him onto his back with a thump. On his way down, his head caught a corner of the couch frame, leaving him momentarily dazed.

Santana took advantage, swiftly rose to her feet, grabbed a soft pillow, and removed her weapon. She kicked him in the groin to further immobilize him before sitting astride his stomach and then smothered his face with the cushion, ramming his head into the carpet. As he began to struggle and made a move to grab her legs, she skillfully shoved the barrel of her Glock 22 into the cushion and pulled the trigger.

The only sounds in the room then were a disappearing echo of the muffled gunshot and Santana's uneven breathing—adrenaline and fear still coursing through her body.

In a daze, she safetied and holstered her gun before rising to her feet to check on Ratsami.

That was only her fifth kill, and she knew it wouldn't be her last. This thought jolted her back to the present. She closed her eyes and tried to clear those unpleasant memories. Instead, her mind shifted to her last night with Avery, yet somehow, despite the physical intensity of that evening, the emptiness that she had been feeling did not disappear.

Maybe Brussels would be different.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII. Brussels Airport

Santana sighed in relief as she stretched her legs down the jet way, happy to finally be in Brussels. As she walked, she cycled through the reading that she had completed after finishing her cocktail and taking a brief nap (too much adrenaline caused by the anticipation of a new assignment precluded any real relaxation); she familiarized herself with Brussels, its history, and its culture. To anyone else on the plane, she looked like an American tourist excited for a vacation in Belgium.

As she maneuvered through the growing crowd in the airport, she continuously had her eyes and ears open—countersurveillance was second nature to her at this point. When she reached baggage claim, she felt her phone vibrate and saw a simple message from a blocked number, Charles she assumed. It simply read:

C-Tech Industries

Parole: Hotel Amigo

She deleted the message immediately and scanned the area casually as she waited for her luggage. As she pulled her bags from the carousel, she found her "target" and walked towards him, dodging the hustle and bustle as best she could. A blonde man with almost Harry Potter-like glasses held a sign that read C-Tech Industries in thick black letters.

"Bon jour, mademoiselle," he greeted with a small smile.

"Bon jour," Santana replied with a nod. He took her bags and led them through the automatic doors into the warm, fall Brussels air.

The young man continued, "Avez-vous fait bon voyage?"

"Oui, je l'al fait. Merci," Santana replied as if on autopilot.

"Quel hôtel souhaitez-vous partir á?

"Hotel Amigo," she answered, her voice a bit more firm.

"Oui, mademoiselle." The young man nodded knowingly at her. They spent the rest of the walk to the black Mercedes sedan in silence. He placed her luggage in the trunk and then opened the rear door for her. If anyone had been watching, it would have simply looked like a typical car service picking up a client who was in town for business.

Once the car was in motion, they broke the silence.

"Hi, I'm Matt. So, your flight was good?"

"Yeah, thanks. I'm Santana."

"I know," he smiled into the rearview mirror.

"Can you fill me in a little? I feel like I'm almost walking in blind."

"I should probably leave that to Shelby…"

Santana laughed softly. "Yeah, I figured. No problem."

"But, I guess I could give you something," he teased.

"Do tell," Santana answered in kind.

Matt resituated himself in the driver's seat and took another quick glance in the rearview mirror. "We're a small team and work well together. We've only been up and running for about three months, so we're still doing research, gathering intel from other agencies. With you coming in, it seems like we're ready to move into the next phase. There are three other ops besides you, Chris, Tina, and Elliot and Shelby, as you know, is our chief."

"What do you do?" Santana asked, while taking in everything that Matt had said.

"I'm the tech geek," he looked over his shoulder and smiled.

"So you're the go-to guy?" Santana asked, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

"At your service." There was a small pocket of silence that followed. Matt then cleared his throat softly and continued, "Don't take this the wrong way, but I would not have you pegged for a spook, a supermodel maybe." He smiled back at her again.

She laughed quietly, "Definitely not a supermodel, but thanks." Santana could feel the heat in her cheeks. She quickly gathered herself. "It's nice to know that I'll have family during my time in Brussels."

"Oh?" Matt responded with a great deal of curiosity in his voice. "How did you…?"

She cut him off, "When you looked at my tits, it was an appreciative once-over rather than a leer."

Matt's laugh filled the small vehicle. "I can tell that we'll get along just fine."

"I think so, too," she replied. Santana smiled to herself, feeling more comfortable already. She shifted slightly then continued, "So, as tech guy, I assume that I'll get my NOC from you?"

"Definitely, after Shelby reads you in."

"Okay." Another pause. "Any hints?" Matt could hear the interest and smile in her voice.

He glanced in the mirror again. "I hope you like international law."

###

They arrived at the CIA stationhouse on Rue Marie de Bourgogne about 30 minutes later, and Matt escorted Santana to the third floor of the brownstone. Matt left her in front of one of the doors; she knocked, and a firm yet warm voice responded, "Come in." Santana's first thought when she caught initial sight of her new boss was "Damn." Shelby Corcoran was nothing short of stunning; her wavy dark hair framed a beautifully angular face and the smile that she graced Santana with when she entered nearly stopped the younger agent in her tracks, almost sending her stumbling into the pair of chairs at Shelby's desk. Santana righted herself and took a seat; after which, they exchanged greetings.

"Santana Lopez, it is great to have you finally here. Charles gave you high marks."

"I'm flattered, thank you. Charles may have exaggerated a little; he has a tendency to do that," Santana replied with a knowing grin. Shelby laughed softly in response. They were at ease right away. "I'm excited to be joining the team," Santana added.

"Good, I like enthusiasm." Shelby paused, grabbed a file folder off of her desk, and leaned back in her black Herman Miller chair. "B.A. in Russian Civilization from Smith with minors in French and Russian." She hummed to herself while Santana waited awkwardly. She knew what Shelby was doing—it was spycraft 101, make 'em squirm. "An M.A. in Global, International, and Comparative History from Georgetown. Joined the Agency at 24, spend most of your time in CT until two years ago when you were transferred to counterproliferation. First assignment was Bangkok." Shelby looked up from the file and smiled at Santana while Santana shifted under the scrutiny. "It lists your other languages besides French and Russian. How'd you learn those?"

"I'm self-taught. I'm a language geek," Santana quipped, and Shelby chuckled at Santana's successful attempt at levity.

"So, tell me about Bangkok," Shelby instructed, tossing the file back on her desk. Santana made a move to quickly respond, but Shelby held her hand up. "Yes, I know it's in the file, but I want to hear it from you." Santana looked at her with a bit of confusion mixed with a hint of apprehension; she wasn't comfortable talking about certain aspects of that operation. Shelby raised an eyebrow in question. Santana shifted again and re-crossed her legs.

"It was definitely a different experience than CT, more hands-on and that surprised me. I got to use my Thai and Mandarin; I enjoyed that. I'm looking forward to putting my Russian and French to use here, though, admittedly, my Dutch is rusty." Santana grinned, hoping that would cover it.

"Bangkok, Lopez," Shelby interjected with a quiet authority and a half grin.

Santana smiled wryly and replied, "Right. Well, we were assigned to investigate a local organization with ties to the Chinese; they were selling mostly small arms and components for IEDs to Somali pirates and groups in Algeria and Egypt—possibly with Al-Qaeda links but more than likely they were just rebel groups. The Chinese got in our way every chance that they got—unofficially of course—including trying to take me out at one point. But, we were able to successfully infiltrate the Thais and shut down their operation." The nonchalant shrug that Santana tacked on at the end made Shelby smile and shake her head. Charles was right, she thought, a little cocky but maybe that will serve her well; you have to have confidence in this business to survive.

Shelby let the silence fall between them momentarily before continuing. "And you were shot, correct?" Santana immediately grew somber, a dramatic shift from her mood only a moment ago. Her eyes dropped for a second but then met Shelby's gaze. This is what I don't want to talk about, Santana mused.

"Yes, but it healed quickly; I was back in the field within weeks. Of course, a few months later, I was attacked and almost killed again, so…you know, fun times in Bangkok." Santana tried a lighthearted answer hoping that Shelby would understand.

"I read about that. Glad you came out on the other end intact."

Santana laughed, "Yeah, me too." Thank god she dropped it, Santana thought with relief.

Shelby rose from her chair and towards Santana. "Let's go meet the team." Santana nodded and followed Shelby to the ground floor where they convened with the rest of the small group in the dining room-turned-conference room. Santana took a seat while Shelby grabbed a stack of folders. "Okay, people, let's welcome Santana Lopez. Introductions please and quickly so we can get to work," Shelby announced and distributed the dossiers as she did.

"Hi, I'm Tina Kyong," said the third woman on the team. Santana smiled in recognition. "It's nice to see you again." The two women went through The Farm together, and Santana vaguely recalled that Tina had a pretty vicious left hook from their hand-to-hand combat training.

A muscly African-American man went next. "Chris Haverford, welcome." Santana nodded in hello.

"Elliot Nelson. I heard about Bangkok, way to kick ass." He gave her a half-nod of approval and she smiled in return.

"Excellent. And you'll meet Kevin Jones, our D.C. SO in the near future," Shelby added, effectively taking control of the briefing meeting. "Let's start. You have the files. For the past couple of months, we have liaised with our British and French counterparts to exchange intel. We've narrowed our focus to two targets, though this could change as we move along. Grigory Zolotov, a Russian importer-exporter, has been in Brussels for approximately two and a half years. We know very little about him at this moment. Camille Bertrand, our DCRI contact, had a bit about him but nothing extensive, unfortunately. She believes that he operates an arm of the Russian mafia and has set up operations here in Brussels as a site of distribution. Our other target is a relatively new player in town: Pasha Andreyev. Camille could confirm his connection to the Russian mob, and it looks like his area of expertise, as it were, is drug trafficking. But, after talking with both Camille and Aaron Young at MI6, we believe that he may be expanding his interests."

"Any chemical, biological, or nuclear possibilities?" Tina asked.

"No, we think that they're sticking strictly to small arms," Shelby responded.

"How do we proceed?" Santana inquired.

"Santana and Elliot take Zolotov; Tina and Chris, you guys get Andreyev. I want to start with soft surveillance and see how we can penetrate their operations to get some electronic surveillance—we want to get up on their phones as soon as possible, and we want wires in their vehicles, places of business, and homes. Get info on their guys and start developing more detailed profiles. Two weeks. Questions?"

The room fell silent; they were eager to get to work. Shelby started to exit the room but looked over her shoulder at Matt. "Get Lopez set up with her new NOC and get her a gun." Matt replied with a quick "Yep" and turned his attention to Santana.

"When we outfit you guys with surveillance equipment, I'll issue you the Glock. For now, though, Casey Walker," Matt smiled playfully, "you better get some back-to-school clothes."

"What?" Santana asked incredulously.

"You start classes at the Universiténext week—a law student studying international law."

"Well, shit."

###

Santana began getting settled in her flat on Rue du Framboisier, located just on the other side of Bois de la Cambre from campus. Her view from the top floor left a lot to be desired, but she figured that she wouldn't be here that much anyway; she envisioned many late nights reviewing surveillance footage and crashing in one of the rooms at the stationhouse. The small one bedroom apartment was tastefully decorated and personalized for Casey Walker but not memorable—it was enough to be convincing while also easily forgettable. How very CIA, Santana thought ruefully. She relaxed into the couch with a glass of white win and the dossier for Operation Foxglove.

A new city.

A new name.

A new chance to do some good.

Or, so she hoped.


	9. Chapter 9

IX. J Gallery, Rue de l'Escalier, Brussels

Quinn finished up a phone call with a potential buyer and began organizing her notes so she could give Béatrice a heads up. Her boss showed up right as Quinn was jotting her last few thoughts—impeccable timing as usual, she thought.

"Bon jour, Quinn. Comment ça va?

"Trés bien. Je viens de parler avec un client potential," Quinn responded with a smile. She knew that this news would brighten Béatrice's day. The older woman leaned a slim hip against Quinn's desk; her black and grey Chanel suit skirt riding up slightly as she relaxed. Quinn couldn't help but wonder what her boss would do if she snagged her $700 suit on her desk.

"Continue, please," Béatrice softly asserted, switching to English.

Quinn followed her lead and also switched, "Her name is Gerta Bothmer, and she wants to meet sometime this week. She's flying in from Paris tomorrow and will be in town for at least two weeks."

"Periods?"

"German contemporary and Kamakura."

Béatrice gave Quinn a startled look, and Quinn just shook her head and laughed. "I know; she has rather eclectic taste, but I did a little research on her. She comes from old German auto money."

"Mercedes?"

"Porsche." Quinn nodded in understanding when Béatrice's eyes went wide. Quinn thought that her normally composed supervisor might actually start drooling. "Set up an appointment, immédiatement!" Béatrice slammed her open palm on Quinn's desk in excitement then moved to her own chair.

"Would you like me to pull the latest auction information for those two periods?"

"S'il vous plaît." Quinn nodded and began setting up an appointment between her boss and Greta. Then, she set to work on research.

About two hours later, Quinn found herself absorbed in multiple auction catalogs when her phone rang.

"Bon jour, Grigory," Quinn answered cheerfully.

"Hello, Ms. Fabray. Would you have time to meet today?" She glanced at Béatrice who quickly gave her a nod of approval.

"Of course, Grigory. What time?"

"One hour. See you then." He hung up before she could respond; she knew where they would meet, of course. His abruptness concerned her for a moment, but she let it pass and returned to her work.

###

Quinn waited at their usual table with a glass of white wine once again. She didn't know why Grigory wanted to meet, but she brought the Sotheby's catalog with her just in case, tucked neatly inside her mahogany-tinted leather portfolio. Grigory arrived only ten minutes after she did, but he entered only with Oleg this time.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Fabray. Would it be okay with you if we change plans today? I have a space that I want to show you…get your opinion, that sort of thing."

Quinn didn't want to display any apprehension, so she pushed aside any fear that crept up. "Of course, Grigory. I'd be delighted to assist you."

"Wonderful!" He gestured for her to exit, "Please, this way." The two gentlemen escorted Quinn to the black Mercedes with tinted windows. Oleg held the door open for her, and she slid across the leather seats, hoping that her nervousness wasn't evident to her client.

Grigory addressed the driver as soon as he got settled, "Yury, kvartiru." The car was in motion, and Quinn pondered to what 'apartment' they were headed. Just as she was about to ask, a cell phone rang. Oleg answered and immediately passed the phone back to Grigory. All Oleg said was "Kamal."

"Privat," Grigory said cordially when he took the phone. He nodded as the man on the other talked briefly.

"Da, ya govoril s nimi." He paused again. "My vstretimsya posle perevoda," he affirmed. Quinn was able to follow along and gazed out of the window in attempt to appear like she was not listening, or, more importantly, could not be listening. But, hearing the conversation was simply unavoidable. Some kind of meeting was happening after a transfer was made, Quinn mused. Transferring funds for chocolates? She almost rolled her eyes at herself at the thought. It must be drugs, she assumed.

Grigory responded, "Raspisaniye zavisit ot deneg. U menya yestʹprodukt gotov." Now, Quinn recognized, Grigory was no longer saying "shokolad" (or chocolate); instead, he simply said "product." He wasn't disguising whatever business he was doing in front of her. She wasn't sure what to make of this.

He ended the call and returned the phone to Oleg just as they pulled into a parking garage to, what appeared to be, a luxury apartment building.

"Here we are," Grigory exclaimed. "Come, I want to show this space. I hope you can help me fill it with some art from my beautiful Russia."

"I will certainly do my best, Grigory." He chuckled heartily as they made their way to the elevator; Grigory and Quinn flanked by Yury and Oleg, who moved fluidly and observed their surroundings carefully. Quinn felt simultaneously safe and uneasy.

###

After her meeting with Grigory, she knew that she had some research to do. He was very specific with what he wanted lining the vast open walls of the top floor loft apartment. He dropped her off at their wine bar, and she decided to head home. Half way to her place, she decided on a detour. With the catalogs in her bag, she felt like having a glass of wine and doing a little scouring for Russian art.

She cut through the Bois de la Cambre and headed for her favorite restaurant and bar—Wood Resto. Her usual spot at the far end on the corner was open, so she relaxed, ordered a glass of red wine, and began reading. She normally would come here after classes to decompress and enjoy a drink or two. Quinn typically kept to herself and simply people watched while she read and sipped on her wine. Tonight would be no different.

After about an hour and another glass of wine, Quinn happened to look up to stretch her neck a little when a gorgeous woman, about her age, in jeans, a black t-shirt, and a messenger slung over shoulder walked in, looking around for a place at the bar. Her lustrous black hair shone under the dimmed lights, and her soulful brown eyes seemed hopeful and calm. Quinn inhaled sharply and simply stared; she couldn't remember being this taken by someone within seconds of seeing her.

The other woman easily maneuvered around the small crowd gathered at the front of the bar and found a seat towards the back, not too far from Quinn. As she sat down and hung her bag on the back of the chair, she glanced up and caught Quinn's eye. Her voluptuous mouth curved into, what Quinn thought of as, a flirtatious smile. The moment passed quickly, too quickly for Quinn's liking.

The woman flagged down the bartender and once or twice peeked in Quinn's direction. She spoke with an easygoing, warm voice, "Un gin martini avec un twist, s'il vous plaît." And, just like that, Quinn was taken once again. She heard French all day; she spoke the language, but never had the language been so irresistibly sensual before. Quinn simply hoped that she could hear the beautiful woman sitting only a few seats away speak in French again or, better yet, look her way once more.


	10. Chapter 10

X. The Wood, Brussels

Part of establishing her NOC was to develop a daily routine to make herself visible though not entirely memorable to a selection of people. This was her train of thought as she walked through the doors of the bar. Santana had discovered this quaint establishment on her way home from campus, simply wandering through the park; she wanted to determine her route to and from her apartment and school before classes started and before she needed to join the team for surveillance. This bar in the middle of the park seemed like a perfect spot to relax and make her face known a little.

With her messenger bag casually hanging from her shoulder, looking very student-like, Santana quickly assessed her surroundings, taking in every available exit and every patron within a matter of a minute or two. (It almost freaked her out a little how quickly she was able to do that now.) As she scanned the rear of the bar, she spotted _her_—a beautiful blonde, who was quietly reading and sipping wine. Her short, layered hair framed angular cheekbones perfectly, and Santana could tell—simply through her years of training—that the stunning woman was a fellow American. Santana tried not to stare, as such behavior belied everything that she had been taught. The battle between her countersurveillance training and her raw desire erupted immediately as she continued to weave her way through the growing throng of people. She could feel her desire valiantly resist the advancement of her honed instincts and glanced once again at the woman seated now only a few bar chairs away. The woman's classic beauty combined with her repose beckoned Santana and forced those professional instincts to momentarily retreat.

After settling her bag on the back of the chair and with her iPad in hand, Santana ordered a gin martini and began reading an overview of international law. Within a few minutes, she could feel the blonde's eyes on her and the battle warred inside once again. In a conscious attempt to drive the agent part of her into submission, Santana looked up from the screen and caught smiling, soft hazel eyes focused on her. The grin that spread across Santana's face was automatic, a result from the surging forces of desire going on the offensive. An unfamiliar warmth spread through her body, and it certainly was not the result of the cocktail. She felt stirrings of something long forgotten, or possibly never experienced. The blonde's short eyebrow quirk in return appeared flirtatious, Santana thought. It caused her to sharply inhale before returning to the small screen in front of her.

A while passed then out of the corner of her eye, Santana watched the blonde pay for her wine, gather her belongings, and rise from her bar chair. She couldn't help both the feeling of disappointment that washed over her and the need to follow the woman's every movement. Santana was almost hypnotized by each small but graceful movement of fingers or a nearly imperceptible twitch of a smile tugging at the corner of the blonde's mouth as she once again caught Santana's gaze. When the woman glided passed her seat, Santana's head turned and followed as if she was being lured by an undeniable force, one over which she had no control but one to which she willingly relinquished control. The energy that buzzed between them as the blonde walked by was more than palpable; Santana could feel it everywhere, in every nerve, in her gut. As she watched the blonde exit the bar, Santana took stock of how light and free she felt at that moment, even more so when the sillage of the woman's scent invaded her nose and filled her senses with a heady and luscious mix of citrus and lilies. For a frozen moment, Santana experienced a sensation of being surrounded, of being embraced. It passed too quickly, but its aftermath would linger with her.

After trying to return focus to her book, she realized that it was futile, so she paid her tab and headed for the exit. Instead of shifting immediately into countersurveillance mode, Santana's thoughts shifted to deep and twinkling hazel eyes. Once outside amid the warm autumn breeze, Santana stopped mid-step and purposefully altered her mindset: she was in Brussels to do a job, an important job, not to chase gorgeous women in bars. And, just like that, Santana heard every rustle of leaves on the trees, heard every footstep near her, and noticed every movement of those around her. Once back in professional form, Santana silently berated herself for getting so distracted; it had entirely surprised her by how completely preoccupied she was by some woman whom she'd only seen briefly in passing. Never had anyone or anything shaken her off of her game like this woman did. Santana decided then and there, as she turned out of the park and towards her apartment, that diligent and undivided focus on the job was her only option. She could not allow herself to be so completely sidetracked again, not when the stakes were potentially so high.

But, no matter how much she worked to resist them, images of the blonde ran through her head like a montage in a Cinéma Pur film. These pictures lulled her to sleep that night, and for the first time in months, she slept without flashes of pain and the pop-pop-pop noise of gunshots invading her dreams.

###

The next morning, Santana stood inside the doorway of the CIA stationhouse and mentally prepared herself for her first real day on the new job. She woke up that morning well rested and free from the burden of haunting nightmares that were actually memories; she knew the latter was short-lived but would take what she could get. Santana also knew the source of her ability to sleep well, which was why she was standing where she was at the moment. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and entered the brownstone. She wandered a bit, not really knowing where she was going but finally found the door to the back of the house where the garage was located.

She didn't see Elliot right away, just a black, windowless Mercedes Sprinter van with its doors open. "Hey," Santana shouted as she moved to drop her bag on the floor of the passenger seat side.

"Over here," came the response from the other side of the van. Santana followed and found her new partner at a workbench putting last minute items into a duffel bag.

"Hey," she repeated.

"Morning," Elliot greeted with a quick glance in her direction before returning his attention to the bag.

"Need a hand?"

"Nah. But, could you double check the audio equipment in the van?"

"Sure," Santana answered quietly then making her way back to the well-stocked van.

"I got coffee," Elliot shouted back to her. She smiled at the clear happiness in his voice.

"Thank god," she responded. With that, they worked in silence, double-checking their inventory and ensuring everything was in working order, not that they doubted Matt.

Once they were satisfied, they got settled into the van with Elliot driving and Santana gratefully accepting the large coffee that he brought her. On the way to Zolotov's estate, they made small talk, sharing bits of information but nothing too revealing. After Elliot parked the van amid some trees just east of the gated compound, they went to work.

"I'll take the camera if you grab the directional?" Santana said once they were in the back of the van.

"Yeah. I'd rather do audio," he responded smiling. He glanced out of the window again, just taking in the grounds surrounding the manor. "There's going to be a lot of security on this place. Look at how huge this fucking house is."

Santana laughed. "This house is ridiculous. It's the complete opposite of the dumps that the guys I investigated in Bangkok lived in."

"Yeah?" She nodded. He fiddled with the directional mic for a second. "My last assignment was in Morocco, and we lived in these small, cramped apartments with no air conditioning. It's the goddamn dessert; you'd think the Agency would at least spring for that. I'd rather be in the back of this van all day than in that shithole of an apartment."

She chuckled at Elliot's visible disgust. "Well, you might get your wish, buddy. With what I'm seeing," she said as she looked through the telephoto lens at the estate, "it'll take us a while to get up on this guy."

"I was afraid you'd say that." Elliot tested the directional. "We're too far away to get anything." He tossed the equipment on the small table that held two monitors and some other equipment.

"Looks like we have our work cut out for us," Santana replied. Elliot's only response was a sigh.

"Okay, let's see," Santana started, which was Elliot's cue to grab his notebook. "I've got one on the east side, walking in front of what looks like at least two entrances. There are eight large windows and two French doors. One guy on the west side, standing on a concrete patio in front of a large glass double door. I don't see any visible weapons, but we can just assume that they're carrying. No one on the roof."

"Minimal guard presence. I assume most of his security is tech then."

"Yeah," she answered softly. She continued scanning the house. "You're right. I'm counting at least eight cameras on the front of the house. Six on the second floor and one on the small window at the top of the house and two in the large archways by the front door."

"We'll have to enter from the back or side, unless we can access the camera feed. We can just assume that there are cameras stationed at every corner and potential entrance of the house."

"I'll get Matt what information we have. It's probably a closed network, so getting in might be tough."

"You're right," Elliot said. His posture altered slightly, but then he turned a bit towards Santana with a smirk on his face. "We'll just have to get creative then."

"Now you're talkin'," Santana responded with excitement in her voice. They laughed and then continued assessing the security protocols on the rest of Zolotov's estate.

About two hours later, Santana shifted abruptly. "I've got movement. Black four door Mercedes sedan heading for the gate." They quickly climbed into position, and Elliot waited to start the van until the sedan was at least a couple hundred feet down the road and away from them. After emerging from the hidden position, they followed the car at a safe distance. While Elliot drove, Santana prepared the audio equipment, hoping that they could pick up something during the drive.

"Come on, Zolotov, make this easy on us," Santana muttered under breath as she aimed the directional mic in front of them. She listened intently to the static in her Grado RS2i headphones. Elliot closed the distance slightly, and within seconds, the static crackled and Santana heard voices.

"My dolzhny ostanovitʹsya na sklade," a thick, rough voice said.

"Got 'em," Santana exclaimed. "They're going to a warehouse." The two agents exchanged knowing smiles; their day just got more interesting.


	11. Chapter 11

XI. Residences at the Shangri-La Hotel, Abu Dhabi

The afternoon sunlight glistened off of the Khor Al Maqta, and across the river, the wind kicked up a small swirl of sand. Kamal Sarraf soaked in the familiar vista as he stood on the balcony of his luxury apartment. He smiled wistfully as a crew team paddled by; he liked the methodical nature of the sport—the synchronicity appealed to his calculating and strategic mind.

"Mr. Sarraf, let me transfer you to Mr. Hunt," a lilting female voice said over the cell phone speaker that Kamal had resting on the table next to him.

"Thank you," he replied with a firm, stoic tone.

Moments later, a more recognizable voice appeared on the other end, "Hi there, Kamal. How are ya?"

Kamal couldn't help but smirk at the thick Texas drawl. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hunt. I'm well, thank you. How are you?"

The responding chuckle was boisterous. "Come on now, Kamal. I told ya before and I'll tell ya again, call me Buzz; all my friends call me Buzz."

"Okay then," Kamal responded, his voice devoid of any judgment, though, he was contemplating, once again as he always did when Perry Hunt asked him to call him by his nickname, how one got "Buzz" from "Perry."

"And, it's morning here, buddy, not afternoon!" Kamal could have sworn that the booming laugh from his American friend made his phone actually vibrate.

"Ah yes, I forgot. Well, good morning then…Buzz."

"There ya go. Glad we got that cleared up." There was a slight pause before Buzz continued. "So, how are we doing on your end?"

"The team has been in Brussels for a few days."

"That's good, that's good," Buzz responded, nodding on his end. "Do they have all of the information they need?"

"I have passed on the account information, yes."

"And, that's it, right? They don't have nothin' else?"

"No…Buzz," Kamal replied, still stumbling over the awkward and mysterious nickname. "Just the account information—the number and name of the corporation."

"That's terrific. Sounds like we're up and running." Buzz paused once again. "I don't want those boys in Brussels to have any more information than they absolutely need. You remember that, right?"

Kamal shook his head at Buzz's paranoia; this wasn't the first time that his business partner expressed such concerns. "No, Buzz. They do not know who they are buying for or what the merchandise will be used for. My people are discrete and professional."

"I wasn't doubtin' _you_, buddy. I'm worried about guys that I don't know all the way over in Europe."

"I understand, but rest assured, Buzz, this will all be handled properly."

"And, they didn't question the size of the purchase?"

Again, Kamal shook his head to himself. "No, they were instructed to not ask questions. I paid them a little extra to insure this."

The laughter rang through the phone once more. "Smart man! I knew that we'd work well together, Kamal."

A small silence fell over the conversation as if they were waiting for the other to speak; they both knew the next question but were perhaps too unsure to ask it.

Kamal spoke first. "We should still decide on the final target."

"Yeah, yeah, I knew you were gonna say somethin'. I still say that we go after Rundell. That bastard was the one who brokered this bullshit deal in the first place. He got Dolan and McKay to sit down with Al-Ali."

"I agree. I think Rundell should also be the final target."

"Well, all right then, Kamal. Looks we have our plan."

"Has your friend confirmed the trip to Damascus?"

"I've got to call him and make sure the envoy is scheduled as planned. I'm not worried."

"Wonderful. I know we will be ready by that time."

"We better be, Kamal, or this will be a big fuckin' waste of time and money and I don't like wastin' neither."

Another brief silence settled between them as both men reflected.

"Are you still planning on coming overseas?" Kamal asked.

"You bet, buddy. I can't wait to see that city of yours. I've heard it's like Vegas but with taller buildings."

This time, it was Kamal's turn laugh as he fiddled with the lapel of his perfectly tailored charcoal suit blazer that was slung casually over the back of a patio. "I'm not sure if the comparison to Vegas is accurate."

"Well shit, I guess I'll just have to see for myself, won't I?"

"Yes, you will."

"I should get back to work, Kamal. You take it easy now."

"Yes, thank you. Have a nice day…Buzz."

Kamal ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket. He took one last look over the river and then gently patted the sweat from his forehead. He wasn't sure if it was from the conversation or from the blanket of heat that enveloped his city at this time of year.

He returned to his apartment and headed towards his home office. He relaxed into his high backed leather chair and just as he was about to engage in his late afternoon ritual of checking the world's oil prices as markets started to close, a reflection caught his eye. An old picture of Kamal with Khalid Al-Ali taken over ten years ago, and Kamal fondly recalled Al-Ali's palatial house; they were standing close together, arms around each other's shoulders, and smiling like the old friends that they were. Two horses stood behind them, dwarfing the men with their size. Kamal vividly remembered that day at his friend's stables; it was a wonderful day of riding, drinking, and simple jovial conversation. He paused as he reflected, tilting his head contemplatively.

Then, in one swift gesture, he catapulted the framed picture across the room, shattering it into shards, leaving the photo intact and buried underneath scraps of glass. The only remaining sound in the room was the orchestra-like smattering of glass slowly settling against hard tile.

For Kamal, the small act crystallized his resolve, his decision to take action—decisive, violent action—against his former friend.


End file.
